While I Lived in Your Shadow
by Piano4Life
Summary: The only thing left of Ben Solo was his lightsaber and a letter addressed to Poe Dameron. The only thing Poe Dameron left behind were a series of letters to Ben Solo. SPOILERS FOR THE LAST JEDI AHEAD. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.
1. While I Lived In Your Shadow

**_While I Lived In Your Shadow_**

 _I'm not going to start this letter with any sort of greeting. This isn't a real conversation, and even if it were, I don't know that "Hello" is the best way to start a letter. Besides, it's your name on the outside of this note. I prematurely hope that you, Poe Dameron, and no one else, reads this._

 _Where do I begin?_

 _I didn't address this letter to you because I wanted to blame you or anything. I just thought – and I hope – that you'd be the one to understand._

 _You were always the son my parents wanted. I think you and I both know that. You're strong and smart and funny, you can fly, and you're not a Force user. Me, on the other hand? Not as much._

 _I remember the first time you met my parents. We were twelve at the time, and you showed up in what you later called the ugliest landspeeder on the face of Yavin IV. I think my dad said something along the lines of, "You've got some nerve driving that piece of junk onto my property." to your dad, and your dad just laughed and said that you were doing all of the driving now._

 _That's when my dad looked at you and said, "That's good to hear. You keep your old man outta the driver's seat, you hear? He's a danger to safe speeder drivers everywhere."_

 _At first, you just sort of nodded and smiled like a kid who didn't really have any sort of smart comeback. Then, you pointed out the Falcon sitting in our airfield and asked some question about its make. You mentioned the dish, and my father laughed. You hadn't even been in our house yet, but you got him to laugh. Twelve years in the same breathing space as him, and I'd barely mustered a chuckle out of him._

 _But like I said before, I don't want to make you feel like I'm blaming you. I'm not. Please don't feel like I am._

 _It's just that lately, things have been different. Well, more different than normal. Not that we know what normal is. Sorry. I'm getting off-topic._

 _Lately, I've felt something growing inside me. I don't like that it's there, but sometimes it makes me feel good. It's like getting drunk – sometimes the alcohol tastes bad, and the hangover is hell, but actually being drunk isn't so bad. Or maybe it is. I've never actually gotten drunk before. Maybe you haven't, either, and this is just a pointless analogy._

 _I'm getting sidetracked again._

 _If we were talking face-to-face, I might sigh right now. But we're not. So I'm not._

 _The truth is, Poe, I'm scared. I don't know why I'm telling you this, since we don't even know each other that well. Maybe if my parents hadn't sent me away, we might have been friends. Maybe that's why I feel like I can trust you. I don't have many people I can talk to, and you always just made talking seem like the easiest thing in the galaxy._

 _I'm going away. Maybe for a little bit, maybe forever. This darkness inside me just keeps growing and growing, and I'm scared of what might happen if I stay. There are times when I want to give in to all that power, and my own abilities sometimes scare me when I do. I can't pretend not to notice the look on Luke's face when I go under. Not anymore. He's scared of me, too, I can tell._

 _Actually, I'm going to be honest with you. Luke tried to kill me last night. I was asleep, and the darkness had come back. I tried to fight it, and I woke up, and he had his lightsaber just inches from my face. Poe, I was so terrified. I don't even remember what happened next. All I could see was this hardness in Luke's eyes and his lightsaber, right there in front of my face. Somehow, something inside me rose up and protected me, and I don't know it if's the darkness or not._

 _Poe, I'm scared. I don't know what I'm going to do or where I'm going to go now. I just want you to find some way to tell my parents I'm gone. Actually, no. Don't do that. Knowing my mom, she might find some way to find me, and I don't want that._

 _Do you remember that you two liked to cook together? Sometimes, when you and your dad, or just you would come over, my mother would be cooking something, and you'd disappear into the kitchen and help her or something. I don't know if you saw me that one time, but I remember you dancing with her while you were waiting for something to bake. She was singing some old song, and you were humming along with her. I remember her telling you that you were a better dancer than my father._

 _I used to hate that you spent a lot of your time at our house with my mother. It didn't take me long to figure out that you didn't have a mom, though, and that hate just sort of went away. It wasn't like I pitied you or anything – just one day, I looked into the kitchen and I saw you two singing old folk songs while you were stirring something, and I didn't feel mad or anything. I actually felt sort of happy._

 _I learned pretty fast that my parents liked having you around the house. Given that your dad was away a lot on one mission or another, we used any excuse we could to have you over. You could talk politics and culture with my mother, and you could talk mechanics and flight with my father. Like I said earlier, you were just someone who made talking seem like the most natural thing in the galaxy._

 _Then there was me, always quiet and reserved and hard to coax into a conversation. Your name was on everyone's lips. You left your mark everywhere you went, and all I could think was that I wanted to do that someday, too._

 _I don't think that someday's coming anytime soon. It's funny, in a way. Some planets' cultures have weeks with seven days or five or twelve or some other strange number, but "Someday" has never been a day of the week. I wonder why that is. I think that "someday" shares a galaxy with "maybe" and "perhaps" and "I hope so", some other galaxy that our ships can't travel to yet._

 _I really don't know what's going to happen to me. I keep saying that, but I really don't. Sometimes, when I meditate long enough to go under, I can see all this darkness and anger and pain, and the thought of it terrifies me. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff on your toes. You're so close to falling, but you're still part of the cliff, too, and that cliff won't let you go, and right when you think it might be okay, that you can handle being there on your toes right next to thin air, some gust of wind blows by you and knocks you off-balance. Does that make sense?_

 _There's a voice, too. It calls itself the Supreme Leader, and it knows me, Poe. I'm thinking that if I can somehow find the voice, I might be able to figure out what to do with all this power inside me. Maybe the Supreme Leader can fix me. The very least it could do is help me get it under control._

 _I don't want to go under again. I don't have anyone who could pull me out if I do._

 _You know, some part of me thought that by writing this to you, I could save everyone else a bunch of trouble. My parents always loved you more, Poe. Don't deny it. We both know it, and that's okay. Maybe, if you could stay with them, just for a little while, they won't notice quite so much that I'm gone. You radiate light wherever you go. Please, just blind them for a little while._

 _I don't have much time left. I'm leaving my lightsaber with you. I have this feeling that I'm not going to be needing it anymore._

 _I'm sorry that I'm doing all this, Poe. Maybe if things had been different in the past, things would be different now. Maybe we could have been brothers. I would have liked that._

 _Please just remember that I don't blame you for anything, okay? I learned some things while I lived in your shadow, and many of them were good things. I just hope that they're not too heavy to carry along on this journey._

 _Ben._


	2. As Your Shadow Grows Over Me

_**As Your Shadow Grows Over Me**_

Dear Ben,

I don't really know how to start this letter, either. I don't think I could have ever imagined that this sort of day would come. I didn't ever want to. I still don't.

I'm going to be honest with you, like you were with me. I don't know how to write this. I mean, you'll never get to read it now, so I guess this is more just an act of closure for myself, but that doesn't change the fact that I don't know what to say.

Your letter was still sealed when I got it, so I know I'm the only one who's seen it. I keep it folded in this new inside pocket I sewed into my jacket, that way no one else can find it. You said that you hoped no one else but me would ever read it, and I'm doing my best to make sure that happens.

Force, it's still too soon. I don't think I can make myself write much more. It's three in the morning, and I can't think.

 _Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

You know, even though you gave me reasons why you left, I still can't understand why you're gone. I mean, I _know_ why, I just can't seem to make all these pieces fit together in my head. Granted, I don't know much about the Force and all this Jedi stuff you do, but I'm reading your letter again and again to try and understand it. Maybe it was just easier for you to write to someone who didn't have any part in what happened.

About Luke . . .

He came by again this morning and told us what happened. I say us – I'm staying with your parents for a little bit. Your mom asked me to. I hope that's okay.

Actually, that's not okay. Even if it might have been okay with you, it's not okay with me. Your parents don't love me more than you – that's crazy! And how in the galaxy could you possibly think I'm replacing you? There's only one Ben Solo in the galaxy, and he's gone, and he's left a giant hole in all our hearts that I couldn't possibly begin to fill.

 _Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

I realize that I might have ended my last letter a bit abruptly. I'm sorry. I just started thinking too much, and then I got angry, and then – well, you probably wouldn't want to hear any excuses. Here they are, anyway:

1) I get distracted a lot, mostly when I think.  
2) I've been doing a lot of thinking lately.  
3) Most of my thinking has made me either really pissed or really crazy  
4) Getting really pissed or really crazy can get a bit distracting.

Anyway, I'm just going to pick up where I left off before I started ranting.

Luke came by yesterday morning. It's been a few days since he delivered the bad news and the lightsaber, and he decided to tell us "the whole story" yesterday. I'm trying not to be bitter, but I still have a lot of mixed feelings about him. After all, if it weren't for him, you might still be around.

Anyway, his story was a little different from yours. I say "a little". The biggest difference was the fact that he kept trying to passive-aggressively say that you had brought everything down on yourself and now he was all alone and we should feel sorry for him, but you didn't. I could see it in his eyes – he wasn't telling us what really happened. I could have slapped him. I swear I almost did. He had some nerve standing in his sister's house after he tried to kill her son.

I wanted to stand up and yell the truth in his face. Maybe if I was braver, I might have. Maybe if it wasn't so obvious no one believed a word of what he was saying, I might have. Maybe if it didn't mean bringing up your letter in front of everyone, I might have.

I don't know, Ben. Things are too different now that you're gone. It's like I'm twelve years old again, and I can't stay around for the "grown-up" chatter. I'm twenty-nine! It wouldn't hurt for someone around here to acknowledge that, would it?

 _Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

I keep writing to you as if it might help something. It really doesn't. I'm sort of drunk right now, and I'm just going to let you know that it doesn't feel good. Maybe I'm drinking the wrong stuff. I'm on my third bottle of Corellian whiskey. Your dad brought some over. I ended up drinking most of it.

Your dad said that whiskey's an honest drink – it's supposed to bring out the truest, honestest parts of a person. Honestest. Stang, that's not even a word. I guess deep down, I'm a pathetic self-deprecating, depressed loser who makes up stupid words like "honestest" to make himself feel better while he writes letters to a ghost.

This is the first time I've gotten drunk, like _really, really, I-might-pass-out-at-any-second_ drunk. Light shots with my squadmates don't count. Unless you have the alcohol tolerance of Snap Wexley, in which case you'll pass out after two.

Have I told you I'm on leave right now? I'm taking a couple weeks off. Antilles is sympathetic to the situation, and he's sent me home. He says that I can come back when my heart is in the same place my head is. Whatever that means.

My head really hurts right now, but I can't seem to stop drinking. I like the way the whiskey tastes, like it burns its way down your throat and goes through your stomach to your blood and just simmers there and then your heart just pumps that blood all over your body and you can feel the whiskey burn everywhere – your toes, your fingers, your cheekbones – I mean _everywhere_.

You know, for all the whiskey that's burning me up right now, I'm awfully cold. Maybe it's just because you're not here anymore. I know we didn't get to know each other that well, but we knew each other a bit. The winter seems colder on Yavin IV without you.

I think I would have liked being brothers.

 _Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

Where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you

 _Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

Your parents split today. I don't want to talk about it much, but you should know. There was more blame than love going on, and when you have a certain amount of blame living inside of you, you just feel like you need to put it somewhere else. The problem is, when you want to blame someone that has too much of it already living inside of them. Your mom tried to put it on your dad, and you dad tried to put it on your mom. There was some yelling, some crying, but nobody got hurt. I mean, nobody got physically hurt.

Your father left only a few minutes ago. I didn't even get to say goodbye. Chewbacca's gone with him, too, so now it's just me and your mom, but I get the feeling I'm not much help anymore.

Damn it, Ben, how could you think I could ever take your place in this household? You kept your parents together. I couldn't. All that blame living in this house, between these walls, and no one ever tried to put any on me. Maybe if someone had, things would be different.

Ben, please come back. I need you.

We all do.

 _Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

Have you found what you're looking for yet? Is the darkness gone? Has the Supreme Leader told you what to do about it yet? Are you doing better? Do you know I'm still writing to you? Where have you gone? When will you come home? What else can I do to bring you back? DO you even care about us anymore? Did you ever love any of us? Do you know how bad things are right now?

Do you know how much I miss you?

 _Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

I think I've just about memorized your letter now. I don't know why, but lately, I can't seem to stop reading it. I've memorized your handwriting, the way you loop the ends of your y's and g's into the next letter, how your e's are just slightly slanted to the right, the way you slip into cursive more and more towards the end . . . I close my eyes at night, and all I can see is this page of words you've given me.

One thousand four hundred sixty-seven words, Ben. 1,467. I counted them all. 1,467 words and a lightsaber are all you left for me. And now, these 1,467 words are all I have left of you. I gave your lightsaber to one of your father's old friends for safekeeping. I just feel like she'd take better care of it than I ever could. Also, I just couldn't get past this crazy feeling about wanting to take that lightsaber and just turn it on right as I'm staring down into it. I've only ever turned it on once, and it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. I put my hand up right by the blade, and I felt no heat, but my palm burned anyway. The scar's still there, on my left hand.

The war's become so terrible, Ben. I'm almost glad you're far from it – I wouldn't want you to see what we've become. It's gotten to the point where even those of us in the fleet receive extra ground and water training. Some of the guys complain. It's blasters and PT and flying and fighting and swimming every hour, day in and day out. I don't mind as much. It gives me a good break from all this thinking that my brain tries to do – it's hard to think yourself crazy when you're focusing on your twentieth-lap breathing or the rhythm of your cadence.

Right now, I'm stationed at an outpost on one of Mon Calamari's moons. Admiral Ackbar's overseeing the construction of some new ships on his home planet, and we're right next door in the First Order ever decides to show their faces. I still can't imagine why the Republic refuses to acknowledge them as a threat. Some part of me wonders if the First Order hasn't already taken the Senate, but I know that's not my field.

I don't think I've ever told you much about what I do now. I'm part of the Resistance, which is basically a response militia that your mom and some of the Rebellion veterans formed in response to the First Order. Basically, they're a bunch of Empire worshippers that go around causing trouble for everyone. The Republic has the resources to deal with them, but for some reason, they aren't. So instead, we the Resistance get to play galaxy police. It's tiring, but I try to make myself see that it's worth it.

I love the moon I'm stationed on. There's water almost everywhere, and sometimes, I like to go swimming at night. It's relatively safe, as far as I know, and no one's told me that I can't. Besides, some people run. I just like to swim better. Of course, nothing compares to flying, but humans can't exactly fly on their own.

I've been promoted. I'm a major now. Major Dameron. It doesn't really roll off the tongue quite right. I'm either going to have to work my way up or get myself demoted. I think I liked being a captain best. I was responsible for people then, but I was mostly responsible for myself. Too many people's lives depend on a major, far more on a colonel, and an impossible amount on a commander.

I just hope that's never me.

 _Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

I just want to let you know that I say here staring at this piece of paper for about an hour before I could bring myself to write this sentence.

The past few weeks have been a blur. So many people die so fast and leave their ranks empty. The Resistance needs leaders, but we don't have the personnel. It's gotten to the point where we could almost just play sabacc for ranks and no one would care. I care, though. I guess that's what made me a good choice to your mother for a Fleet Commander. I don't know if I can get used to this title. It feels heavy and dangerous, like I always have to keep pushing forward to keep it. I've decided that people shouldn't have to call me "sir". Most of them are older than me, anyway. It wouldn't feel right.

Your mother also decided to tell me a choice bit of information this morning that apparently all of her "most trusted officers" know . . .

I don't believe her. It's not true. It can't possibly be true. If you were here, I'd ask you, just to make sure, but you're not, so I can't, and now I'm just stuck here refusing to believe this _thing._

Maybe the you I remember isn't the you you used to be. Maybe I've romanticized and over-dramatized some stuff in my head. Maybe what I remember about you has been skewed by my own inadequacies and my own desperation to believe in my own version of what I saw in your last letter.

But I don't want to believe it. I can't make myself believe it, and I'm scared that if I start believing it, it might come true. It just can't be. It just doesn't seem to make sense.

Ben, please tell me your mother is wrong.

Please tell me you're not Kylo Ren.

 _Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

I can't keep this up anymore. I started doing this to try to give myself some sense of closure, but then the fact that I could never send these letters to you has just been building up inside me, and it's making me crazy.

You said yourself that you don't blame me. Fine. But I do, for your going away, for what happened at home and to you afterwards, for my own place in this war. You can't stop me. You never said I couldn't put some of this on myself. You just told me not to feel like _you_ were blaming me.

Ben, I'm sorry. Even now, I don't have words. It's been years. You'd think that I would have had the time to think of at least one something to say.

I was devastated when you left. We all were. Yes, I know, I _know_ we weren't great friends or anything, and I _know_ we didn't see too much of each other once your parents sent you to train with Luke, but don't you know I missed you anyway? Don't you remember how we kept each other awake all night that one time when we were fourteen or fifteen? We just curled up on the couch together under a blanket and just had some time to ourselves. I think that was the first time we ever really talked. I'm sorry that it was the only time.

Maybe if we'd had more sleepless nights like that, maybe if we'd talked a little more whenever we were together, maybe if I'd just been a better friend to you, I might have been able to change some of this for the better. Or maybe things would still be the same. You were right when you talked about the infeasibility of "maybe". It really does live in its own galaxy with "someday" and "perhaps" and "I hope so".

I just can't help but feel like I should have seen this coming. Maybe at one point, I did. Maybe I'd put all the pieces together and I didn't like what I saw, so I took them apart again. But now, there's really no going back. You are who you are, and I am who I am. Maybe if you saw me now, I'd be a different person than who you remember, and you might want me to go back to being someone I'm not anymore. I wouldn't want that, and I don't think it's fair for me to wish that on you.

It's just hard to see you as someone whom I've been fighting for the past few years. When I think about it, somehow things make sense. The darkness must have been the First Order. The Supreme Leader must have been Snoke. When you left us to go find answers, maybe you really just left to join the other side of the war.

I don't want to fight you. In fact, I don't want to fight anymore. Flying and fighting used to give me some sort of thrill, but that's mostly gone now. When I take my X-Wing in the air now, I just get this terrible empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it's just because too many people I know have died. I try to make myself go on, but there's only so much I can do. I tell myself that there's nothing else I could be doing right now, that this fight is the right one and I'm on the right side of it.

But then I think about you, and my concentration fails. If someone like you could choose to leave everything behind for this new enemy we have, then what chance could any of us possibly have? You were a good man, Ben. I think you still are, somehow. I don't think a side in a war automatically makes you a good or a bad person. You're following what you believe, and I respect that. I don't have any right to tell you otherwise, and I don't have any right to ask you to change.

I just want you to think a little bit. Times are bad. We both know that. Do you think that your side is doing what it can to make things better? From what I've been told of the First Order, it doesn't seem like the sort of thing that you can really put your faith in. It seems so volatile and dangerous and prone to all sorts of darkness.

You said, in your letter, that you feared the going under, into the darkness, and that you were afraid of this power you had growing inside of you. You said, and I quote, "I don't want to go under again. I don't have anyone who could pull me out if I do."

You were wrong, Ben. You were wrong then, and if you still think that, you're still wrong now. I'm here, and I'll always be here. I don't know how much help or solace I can give you, but I just want you to know that you can always rely on me. I think part of you knows this already – that's why you wrote to me in the first place.

I'm going home, Ben. Just one more mission for your mom on this planet called Jakku, and then I'm putting my resignation in. I'll go home, and I'll wait for you.

You know where to find me.

As always,  
 _Poe._


	3. A Light Long Forgotten

Poe had lost track of the hours in his cell, lost count of the troopers that had come to beat the truth out of him and had only left in frustration and resignation. His eyelids drooped from exhaustion and pain, and he forced himself to try and rest. If he wanted even the smallest chance of getting off the _Finalizer_ , he'd need to save his nearly nonexistent strength.

Between his physical pain and hyperactive mind, though, Poe was finding it difficult to rest. He was dimly aware of the blood and sweat running down his face, and he somehow acknowledged the bruises and cuts painted over the rest of his body. His vision blurred between single and double images.

And then . . .

And now . . .

"I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board."

 _You know damn well you do._ Poe's mind was having trouble deciding whether to feel angry or betrayed. Instead, he only offered a weak glare to the black-robed figure in front of him.

"Comfortable?" Kylo Ren's head tilted ever so slightly.

Poe didn't care to answer, but his voice betrayed him. "Not really."

Ren let out a low chuckle. It might have been a scoff. He stepped closer to Poe's restraining board. "I'm impressed. No one has been able to get it out of you, what you did with the map."

 _The map that'll take you to your would-be killer?_ Instead, Poe mustered some bravado and said, "You might wanna rethink your technique."

Ren might have smiled under the mask as he raised his hand. Poe didn't need the Force to feel the energy in the room change. The scream was torn from his lungs by a mere twitch of Ren's fingers. Poe didn't get a chance to breathe before another cry was ripped from his body. He thrashed in his restraints, desperate for some sort of release, some sort of escape.

"Don't fight me, pilot," Ren whispered, almost soothingly. His hand reached closer, further, _deeper_. Poe slammed his head against the back of his support, hoping to relieve himself of the excruciating pain. He could hardly breathe for the screams that leapt from his throat like a pack of starved fathiers. His gut twisted in agony. If there had been anything left in his deprived stomach, he would have thrown it up.

"I don't need the map," Ren continued, his fingers millimeters from Poe's forehead. Poe could feel a fire raging underneath his skin, as though Ren were trying to pull the very blood from his veins. Ren's mask inched closer until the cold metal almost touched Poe's hot skin. "I need _you."_

Ren's hands pounced on Poe's temples, and his whole world exploded with pain. Except - this time, it wasn't Poe's. Someone else was screaming now.

Wearily, breathing heavily from his ordeal, Poe turned his head. By his side, strapped down to another restraint support, screaming and crying with blood running down his face was -

"Ben-" Poe gasped. Something rose inside him, a mix of confusion and fear and anger and hurt and -

" _Love,"_ snarled Kylo Ren's voice. Poe snapped back to his own cell, the vision gone, his head and heart pounding. Ren grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back, eliciting a small whimper of pain from Poe. "You _loved_ Ben Solo."

Poe forced himself to stare into the cold black mask. He tried to picture the eyes underneath. "He was my friend."

"You wanted something more," Ren accused.

Heat flooded Poe's cheeks, and it wasn't just from pain. "Having him in my life was enough. I didn't need anything else."

"Noble," Ren growled. "Noble and pathetic." He reached up and pressed the sides of his helmet. The bottom part slid upwards with a soft hissing sound, and Ren took the helmet off and shook out his hair. Poe's heart skipped a beat when he saw the unchanged face.

"So it is you . . ." Poe murmured. He shook his head. "I wanted to believe it was a lie. I wanted to believe you couldn't have become that person."

Ren slid a hand through Poe's hair. Poe tried to flinch away, but Ren's grip was firm. "It seems you wanted a lot of things, pilot. I might be inclined to give you one of them."

"Wha - " Poe didn't have time to protest before Ren's lips came crashing down on his own. At the same time, the now-familiar agony in his mind burned to life again. He pulled away, and the pain stopped.

"How was that, pilot?" Ren pulled off his gloves and caressed Poe's cheek with his bare thumb, eliciting a mix of a comforted sigh and a pain-weary groan. Suddenly, he stopped and backhanded the pilot's tear-streaked face. Poe felt the sting of the hit, but more than that, he felt a wave of euphoria coil in his stomach like a ysalamir.

"Ben - " Poe whispered, and this time, he reached up to lead the kiss, even as his instincts screamed at him not to. His mind exploded with agony again, but he couldn't refuse himself. His pained breaths escaped shallowly into Ren's mouth. One of Ren's hands twisted in his hair while the other snaked behind his waist and pressed him up against his restraints. The pain was almost unbearable, but all Poe could see was Ben's face. Ben, whom he'd loved in secret from far away, whom he'd let down all those years ago, whom he'd lost and searched for and lost again and given up on and finally found again.

Some part of Poe was fully aware that it wasn't Ben he was kissing now. It wasn't Ben that took control of Poe's mouth and neck and jaw like he owned them - no, these were the movements of Kylo Ren, who was just using him for some other dark purpose. But -

"You think you deserve this," Ren murmured, his hand creeping under Poe's shirt as far as the restraints would allow. His nails dug into the bruises and cuts he found there, sending sparks of agony with his touch and euphoria with his torture. Somehow, Poe couldn't bring himself to refuse Ren's advances. After all, Ren was right. He deserved this, after what he'd done and failed to do. Small whimpers escaped his lips, landing somewhere between the lines of pain and want.

Ren's fingers crept down Poe's cheek, turning his head aside. "Interesting . . . a droid . . ."

With a jolt, Poe's mind sprang back into focus. He pulled away as far as he could, horrified. "No - "

"Orange and white, BB unit?" An evil smile slipped across Ren's features. "Not very creative, I'd say."

"No." Poe shook his head despite the splitting pains that lanced through his temples. "Nononono - "

"Too late, pilot." Ren disentangled himself and stepped back, pulling his gloves back on. "We'll have that droid in no time."

"No!" Poe yelled, struggling fiercely against his bonds. He couldn't believe he'd let his guard down, and for what? A moment of false intimacy with a dream he'd been chasing since he'd first laid eyes on Ben Solo?

"Don't waste your energy," Ren whispered, cupping Poe's chin. "There's nothing you can do."

Poe could feel Ren's breath ghosting over his lips, could still taste the agony in his manipulative kiss. He focused instead on Ren's eyes, searching for the vulnerability and solitude that he knew Ben could never hide. He'd known that their paths had diverged a long time ago, and he'd tried to make peace with that. But this? "Please, Ben, don't do this."

"I do not define myself by that name any longer," Ren hissed.

"That's the name you left me with!" Poe cried. "You can call yourself whatever you like now, but Ben Solo's the one who left us, and Ben Solo's the one we miss."

Ren made no reply. Instead, he retrieved his helmet and clamped it over his face again. He raised one hand, and Poe's throat closed. The pilot's lips moved in the shape of words and his face contorted in a silent plea, but no sound came out. Ren strode briskly out of the room.

Ren was met by a stiff-postured, red-haired figure. "It's in a droid. A BB unit."

"If it's on Jakku, we'll have it in no time," the other said swiftly. "Anything else?"

"No." Ren gave a cursory glance in Poe's direction. "Prepare him for immediate execution."

"Is he not worth reconditioning? His skills could prove useful if, er, given some _guidance."_

"He is not the only pilot the galaxy has to offer. Besides, we've already seen the fruit of your reconditioning system, have we not?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Then I suggest you re-evaluate the men and women you sent with me and find out where their true loyalties lie. In the meantime, this one is to be executed. Use whatever means you like, but make it public. I want the whole of the Resistance and any of its supporters to see."

"As you wish, _Lord Ren."_ The red-haired man didn't even salute Ren as he turned and entered Poe's cell, flanked by a small stormtrooper escort. He tilted his head curiously. There was no way he could have missed the flush in Poe's lips or his rather suggestively rumpled shirt. "Poe Dameron."

"That's me." Poe fought to keep his tone steady. His voice came out weaker than he'd wanted.

"Armitage Hux," the man said, his eyes narrowing. "A pleasure, finally meeting the so-called _best_ pilot in the Resistance. A pity that you won't be joining our ranks."

"So you say." Poe would have said more, but his body was on the verge of physical collapse, and his throat burned with Ren's fire. His eyes felt heavy with tears from what he'd let Ren do to him, but he refused to cry in front of this Armitage Hux who looked like he was half-durasteel rod. He noticed Kylo Ren hovering by the entrance. Hux followed his gaze and lifted his chin slightly.

"He looks almost too clean for the cam," Hux commented. "Wouldn't you agree, Ren?"

Poe knew what was coming next, but quite frankly, he didn't care. The troopers could hurt him however they wanted. In a few minutes, it wouldn't matter.

At Hux's signal, Poe was unbound and thrown to the floor. His flight jacket was torn off, leaving him in his sweat-soaked beige shirt.

The troopers were merciless. Poe was tossed between them like a rag doll, one's fists carrying him to another's. He could feel his skin split open and his bones crack and pop under the weight of their blows, but he couldn't seem to react. After Ren's interrogation, nothing the troopers did seemed to hurt. One trooper slammed Poe's arm down on his knee. Poe heard the telltale snap, but he couldn't feel the broken bone.

Poe could no longer stand or kneel, so he slumped weakly on the ground, closing his eyes as blood streamed down his face. Kicks and stomps rained down on his body, but he did nothing to shield himself. _It'll all be over soon. They'll kill me, and it will all be over._

"Oh, what is this?" The blows stopped at the sound of Hux's voice. Through blurred eyes, Poe turned his head a fraction to see what was going on.

Hux was holding a small, worn, leather-bound journal, Poe's jacket under his feet. He flipped through it and began reading. "' _Dear Ben. I don't really know how to start this letter, either. I don't think I could have ever imagined that this sort of day would come. I didn't ever want to. I still don't."_ He sneered at Poe. "Love letters, Dameron? Sentimental. Pathetic." Hux threw the journal aside and knelt by Poe's prone form. "Let's hope your Ben is watching when you finally die."

"My Ben's already dead." Poe's voice was barely a whisper. He coughed, spattering the floor with little drops of red. He gazed past Hux to the immobile figure of Kylo Ren. " _You_ murdered him."

Hux smiled. It was a sickening sight. He stood and kicked Poe's face, and Poe felt a new stream of blood gush from his nose. One foot pressed down on Poe's neck, not to choke, but to restrain. "I've had many people killed over the years, Dameron. I don't remember most of them, but I think I'll remember you. Once we transmit the feed of your execution across the galaxy, the Resistance's hope will die along with you, and I'll be there to see it."

A laugh fluttered from Poe's lips. "I'm not the hope of the Resistance, pal. I'm just the guy they sent to go get it."

Fury crossed Hux's face, and he kicked Poe's face again, his heel landing on his left eye. "Take him away!"

Two stormtroopers hoisted Poe between them and cuffed his wrists in front of him. Poe cried out softly when the one on his right grabbed his broken arm. A hood was roughly shoved over his head, and he was forced from his cell, half-marched, mostly-dragged down the halls.

If he hadn't been blinded, he might have seen Kylo Ren stoop down to pick up the journal before he left the cell.

* * *

 _The broadcast is staticky and blurry at first, but it soon comes into focus. A man stands on a platform, the cuffs on his wrists hung on a hook on the wall behind him, stretching his arms above his head. The right one juts out at a strange angle; it must be broken. His torn shirt and skin are clearly marked by the First Order's abuse, his hair sweat-soaked. His face is bruised and bloody, both eyes blackened, his nose crooked as if it's been broken several times. His legs look like they can barely hold him up, and there's a stun collar around his neck. If he's in pain, he doesn't show it. His eyes only display defiance, but his sagging, tired posture suggests resignation. He knows what fate lies in store for him._

" _Beings of the galaxy," the voiceover says. The accent is posh, and the voice is bold - one of high-class militaristic standing. "Citizens of the New Republic. Today, we bring before you a man of the Resistance. You've all heard of them. You call them your saviors, your protectors, your heroes. It took some time, but even this man, the famed Poe Dameron, the Resistance's greatest pilot and invaluable Fleet Commander, broke before us and revealed everything he knew. Look, galaxy - one of your heroes. Let his death be a lesson to you all. There are no heroes, and those that would dare to resist us will suffer the same fate as he will."_

 _Two stormtroopers enter the frame, each carrying an electroaxe. Their helmets have distinctive black stripes that mark them as executioners._

 _The prisoner - Poe Dameron - begins speaking. It takes a moment for the microphone to pick up his voice, it's so soft: "I'm not going to start this letter with any sort of greeting. This isn't a conversation, and even if it was, I'm not sure that 'Hello' is the best way to start a letter. Besides, it was your name on the outside of this note. I prematurely hope that you, Poe Dameron, and no one else, reads this. Where do I begin?"_

 _The posh voice shouts: "Ready!" The axes open._

" _I didn't address this letter to you because I wanted to blame you or anything. I just thought - and I hope - that you'd be the one to understand"_

" _Execute!"_

 _Visible arcs of electricity dance between the ends of the axes. As one, the troopers press their weapons to Dameron's exposed sides, and he throws his head back in agony. The voltage is not meant to kill at first - it increases the longer the axe is in contact with the victim's body. Death is slow, and it is painful. Amazingly, Dameron still finds the strength to speak._

" _You were - always the son my - parents wanted. I think - you and I - both knew that - You're strong - smart and - funny - you can fly and - you're not a Force user - me on the other hand - not as much."_

 _The executioners pull their weapons away, and Dameron looks like he would have collapsed if his wrists hadn't been hung above him. The strain on his arms is visible - the broken bone in his right arm is visible through his skin. His body jerks and twitches with the shocks still coursing through his system, and his lips flutter in the shape of words. It's clear that he's reciting something - is it an old letter? - like it's a prayer. The executioners wait for their axes to cool down and press them to his sides again. They start from the beginning voltage again. They do not want to kill Dameron quickly. They want him to suffer while the galaxy watches, and he does._

 _Pain lends his voice volume, and the mics pick up his mantra once more: "You keep your old man - outta the driver's - seat, you hear - He's - a danger - to safe - speeder drivers everywhere - "_

 _Pull away. Short, incoherent reprieve. Continue._

" _\- like I said - before - don't want - make you feel - like I'm - blaming you. I'm - not. Please don't feel - like I am - It's just that - lately things - have been different - more different - than normal - not that we - know what normal - is - sorry - getting off-topic - "_

 _Pull away. Short, incoherent response. Continue._

" _\- never actually gotten drunk - before. Maybe - you haven't - either and - this is - a pointless - analogy - if this were a - real conversation - might sigh - but we're not - I'm not - truth is - scared - don't know why - I'm telling you this - we don't - even know - other that well - maybe if - parents hadn't - sent me away - we might have been friends - maybe - why I feel - can trust you - "_

 _Pull away. Short, incoherent reprieve. Continue._

" _\- tried - to kill - last night - asleep - darkness - come back - tried - fight it - woke up - lightsaber - inches - face - terrified - don't - remember - happened next - see was - hardness - Luke's eyes - his light - right there - front of my face - somehow - inside me - rose - protected - don't know - dark - not - "_

 _Dameron's sentences are losing their strength. He can hardly manage one or two words at a time now. Even some of the troopers in the audience look away. Dameron's anguish does not stem from his body. It pours from his words. If he had simply screamed or begged for his life like the others, his death might have been more bearable. But this? Nothing in the galaxy could have prepared anyone for this heart-wrenching soliloquy._

" _\- don't think - someday - soon - planets - cultures - weeks - seven - five - twelve - other - strange - number - someday - never - a day - the week - wonder - why - think - someday - galaxy - with maybe - perhaps - hope so - other - galaxy - ships - can't - travel - to - "_

 _Smoke curls from Dameron's clothes, and his skin is bright red and covered in sweat from the electric burns. He can't last much longer. His body convulses and spasms uncontrollably, and his orison finally breaks down into breathless, silent cries of pain._

 _Seconds later, the executioners are thrust aside by some invisible force, their axes - still at full charge - buried deep in each other's bodies. Dameron's cuffs and collar come undone, and he immediately collapses in a steaming, bloody heap. A huge clamor ensues. There are incoherent sounds of yelling and blasterfire, but above it all is the legendary, telltale whoosh of a lightsaber. Troopers and officers alike are thrown and killed, falling left and right. The cam is suddenly lifted, capturing the action amidst all its shaking. A new figure, clad all in black, whirls a double-quillioned crimson lightsaber amidst a storm of equally red blasterfire. His face is unreadable, but one might imagine his features set in an immovable mask of determination and vengeance. He's fighting his way through the crowd, single-handedly pushing them back. This man - if he can even be called that - is untouchable, invincible. A blast explodes too close to the cam, and the broadcast is cut short._

* * *

Poe's eyelids were heavy with the thought of death. Ben's letter hovered behind his lips, still waiting to be spoken, but he found he no longer had the strength to utter another syllable. He could hardly feel the rest of his body, and movement was impossible. He was dimly aware that he had fallen to the floor and that he was still breathing. Barely. Silence screamed in his ears, begging him to let go of the life he clung so dearly to.

 _I'm trying._ His lungs betrayed him.

Perhaps dying was like sleeping - the darkness would come slowly and subtly, then overtake him before he had a chance to register it. Poe wanted to close his eyes, but they were already shut. Perhaps he was asleep already. He was so close . . .

A sudden warmth blossomed inside his body. Feeling returned to his numb limbs, and with it, pain. A whimper escape Poe's lips. If being dead hurt so much, he's rather live. His nerves were so fried he couldn't tell which pains were real and which ones weren't. Images, light flashed across his closed eyelids. His hearing gradually returned, and every familiar sound was so loud. Someone was calling his name. Someone was shaking him. Someone was carrying him.

Poe's eyes fluttered open a sliver, and he caught a blurry glimpse of a face framed in black. His hand brushed something soft. He tried to grab it, but his fingers felt heavier than durasteel. He felt like he was sinking, but somehow not like he was drowning. Swimming. It was like swimming. He'd liked swimming once. His legs twitched with the idea of wading in the water. It might have just been from the residual electricity in his system.

 _Almost there._

Poe couldn't tell if the thought was his own or not. It wasn't his voice. What did his own voice sound like, anyway? He'd somehow forgotten. He tried to speak to find out, but the only noise he produced was a hoarse croak. That didn't sound right. He tried again and broke off in chest-aching coughs.

 _Don't try to speak. You'll hurt yourself._

Poe didn't argue. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the soft blackness that held him up. Something like water flowed around him, its embrace warm and inviting. It felt nice, like bathing in a still summer lake. Some of the pain in his extremities was gradually replaced by a feeling of numbness and comfort. He could feel himself almost relax.

Everything was still so loud. Poe felt like he should have been able to tell what was going on, but between heavy eyes and overwhelmed ears, his best guess was a battle. It was as if the whole galaxy had decided to explode at the same time. Fireworks. It was like listening to fireworks. Poe tried to open his eyes to see them - he'd always liked the orange ones the best. The arms around him tightened in warning, and the river's current grew stronger and faster, lashing out at random points around him. It was like being in the center of a hurricane meant to protect him.

A voice above him said something, and Poe was set down. He whimpered in protest as his river retreated. Figures blurred together, and their voices crescendoed. Someone was crying. Someone was yelling. Someone was pleading. Other hands descended on him, and Poe tried to shake them off. They were cold, unwanted, unwelcome. He caught glimpses of tan and white shirts, orange uniforms, and turned his head. The colors were too bright.

The river grew farther away. Poe could see it so clearly in his mind. He raced towards it on paralyzed, broken legs, reaching out with maimed and bloody hands to the figure standing in the midst of the rushing water. Desperation lent his voice strength, and he rasped one word: " _Ben."_

The current flowed back to him once more, caressing his face gently. _You're safe now._

The image of a smile crossed Poe's mind. It was like he was dreaming with his eyes open. He could see, almost too clearly, the shuttle doors slam closed - he could feel with too much clarity the shuttle take off and launch them into hyperspace. For some reason, he pictured a single knight with a flaming red broadsword against a whole army. The knight protected himself for a long time, taking down much of the army with him, but once his prince had left, he let himself go. One lucky shot, then another, then another. Eventually, the knight stopped fighting.

What did it all mean?

Poe wanted to go back and find out, to help this stranger that had somehow rescued him. He couldn't move. Voices cooed softly above him, and something heavy and familiar was laid over Poe's burned and bruised chest.

 _You're safe now._

Poe closed his eyes and surrendered to a confused, dark sleep.

* * *

 _There is darkness everywhere. Somehow, he feels safe. A light appears, flickering slowly, just out of his reach. He runs towards it, and the darkness recedes. The light reaches towards him, beckoning him closer and closer, towards the end of this long tunnel. His footsteps grow faster and lighter, as if he is running on the wind itself. The light at the end of his journey solidifies into a single piece of paper, tattered and worn. He catches the paper, turning it over to read words in a language he can't understand._

 _Dear Poe,_

 _I read your letters. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am, for everything I've done. You were right. You pulled me out of this darkness I created for myself, and you showed me how to live again. Perhaps, if we both make it, we can talk._

 _Love always,_

 _Ben Solo._

 _The words somehow don't make sense, even as he reads it. There must be something more. This cannot be the last words he ever remembers. He looks around frantically. There must be something more. He opens his mouth to speak, to talk, but there is nothing. Nothing save for the last letter in his hand. There must be something more._

 _Then -_

" _Poe?"_

 _He finds his voice, and he answers. "Ben."_

 _A tall figure made of light and bathed in warmth appears before him, its hand holding the pen that wrote the words. He holds up the pen, touches the tip of it to the paper, and the letter bursts into a thousand stars. It is beautiful to watch, all those words and their meanings fading away. Where the letter and pen disappear, there is room for their hands to meet. The contact is long-awaited, and they take it tenderly. The shadows they had cast on each other now fall away, for where there is a shadow, there has to be a light. And that light is something truly beautiful._

" _Let's talk."_


	4. Requiem

Luke,

Forgive me if this turns out to be long. I can only say that there have been far too many years between us and far too many things left unsaid when we parted ways.

You were wrong about Ben. You told Han and me that he had fallen so far under Snoke's influence that Kylo Ren had merely emerged as a creature of consequence. You told us that there was no getting him back, but like a fool, I held on to hope. You gave up. Han gave up. Eventually, I gave up, too.

It turns out that there was someone among us who never did. You may or may not remember Poe Dameron – Shara and Kes' son. You met him probably a total of two times, once when you took Ben away with you, and once when you came to tell us he was gone.

I loved Poe like a second son, and he treated us like a second family. He and Ben had an unusual sort of friendship – the kind where everyone in the room could tell how much they cared for each other except themselves. Maybe they talked more whenever I wasn't around. I guess I'll never know.

Poe had such a bright future ahead of him. I know it sounds cliché, but it's true. He had Shara's instincts and Kes' spirit, and he saw the good in everyone he met. When there was a problem, he didn't stop until it was solved. He could be impulsive and a little hotheaded at times, but he made up for it with his open heart. When Poe cared about something, he cared deeply and permanently, almost like a Wookiee.

I'm only telling you all this because Poe is dead now. He slipped away on the shuttle only a few hours ago. It still feels too soon, but you need to know what happened between him and Ben.

I promoted Poe to Commander last year. Out of everyone in the Resistance, he deserves it the most. I would have made him a Vice Admiral, but he refused that. I think he felt that being one would have kept him too far from his X-Wing. Maybe there was more to it. I didn't ask what his reasons were, but something just seemed off about the way he simply said no. Actually, he'd been a little different ever since we'd lost Ben. He tried not to show it, Luke, he really tried, but I could feel this sort of quiet sadness about him whenever he'd let his guard down.

I felt terrible about not doing anything for Poe, especially knowing that he'd basically given his whole life to the Resistance and to me. He had a right to know what had really happened to his friend.

He didn't take it well. He was so quiet when I told him. His silence almost terrified me. He didn't get angry or act surprised or do anything that I might have expected. Instead, he just seemed to fold in on himself, as though he'd been expecting it but didn't want to believe it. I could feel something inside of him die, but all he said was, "Thanks for telling me."

After that, the change got more noticeable. Poe acted more brash, more impulsive. It was as though he was determined to make himself a different person now that he'd seen what Ben had become. His skill grew exponentially. Where he had been brilliant, he was now unbelievable. Some might have called his tactics ruthless. He left no survivors, no witnesses. Underneath it all, though, I think he was scared. He seemed so desperate for any opportunity to fight that I wasn't sure whether he wanted to end the war or keep it going. I sent him to Jakku both to cool down and to find you, but now I realize that I made a terrible mistake that cost me both my sons.

Wherever you are, you couldn't have missed it. Poe's execution was broadcast galaxy-wide. It had just been so long since we'd last heard from him that we couldn't tell if the feed was live or not. I was about to send a recon team to the casting signal to verify, but a transmission saved me the trouble.

It was Ben. He contacted me. seeking my help in saving Poe. Nearly the whole of the Resistance was watching his execution – few of them missed Ben's message. There were several mixed responses. Some believed it was a trick, while others wanted to believe that Ben meant well. I wasn't sure what to think, and I reached out into the Force, looking for him. The contact was brief, but it was concrete. I saw my son running down the black halls of a Star Destroyer, his lightsaber in his hand, determined to save his friend. Our eyes met, and I could feel this new warmth flooding from him. He said only two words: "Help him."

Then we all saw Ben storm the execution hall, one man against legions of the First Order's troops. I wasted no time. I mobilized an extraction team and boarded the shuttle. Hyperspace couldn't bring us to Ben and Poe quickly enough.

We managed to board the Star Destroyer. The hangar was surprisingly empty; Ben must have cleared it out before we arrived. Few stormtroopers came to stop us. From what I'd seen on the broadcast before it cut out, they had plenty else to worry about.

Then Ben arrived, carrying Poe in his arms. I sensed his presence long before I saw him. The Force swirled madly around him like a Kaminoan hurricane, lashing out at anything that tried to impede him. Troopers rushed at him from all sides, but they were powerless to stop him. I couldn't tell where Ben's energy was coming from – it didn't feel dark, but there was no light to it, either.

Whatever it was, Ben managed to get Poe safely on board, and I could feel the pain and death hanging over Poe's fragile life like it was my own. I could feel some sort of connection between Ben and Poe, like Ben's volatile energies were the only thing keeping Poe breathing. Ben laid Poe down and let our medics do what they could, and he gave me Poe's jacket and a small, leather-bound journal. He told me to give them to Poe when he woke up. I remember that so clearly. Ben had said when, not if, as though there weren't even the slightest possibility that Poe wouldn't make it.

I asked Ben to stay, to come home. Ben's answer was simple: No. I realize only now that Poe had told me the same thing when I'd offered him a higher rank. I think they both feared being unable to protect their loved ones had they said yes to me. Poe had wanted to fly. Now, Ben wanted to fight. He needed to stay behind and make sure no one followed us, he said. He was just about to leave when Poe called his name.

The moment was brief, but it was something truly powerful. Poe had regained consciousness just enough to call Ben back, and Ben went. He gently wrapped Poe up in his flight jacket, and he held Poe's hand for a few seconds before turning and running out of the shuttle without another word. Before anyone could do anything, he slammed the door shut behind him with the Force, and I did the only thing I could think to do: I gave our pilot the order to launch.

The farther from the Star Destroyer we got, the worse Poe's condition became. The life support system we put him on could do little else but tell us our best pilot was dying. We launched into hyperspace, and then I felt it. Ben was gone. It was as though someone had sliced me open and pulled out all my organs, leaving me empty inside. I hadn't felt this way since Alderaan had been destroyed. It's a difficult feeling to describe; perhaps you felt it.

Somehow, I think Poe sensed Ben's passing as well. He seemed to relax. There was a light in his eyes. He looked like he was at peace, like he wasn't in pain anymore. I held his hand – the one that Ben hadn't touched – and he almost smiled at me. Then his head fell to one side, and the machine gave us a flatline. The medics tried to shock him back to life, but after three tries, I stopped them. Poe had passed into the Force only seconds after Ben had. In spite of my own grief, I had this unshakable feeling that they would find each other and be okay.

I took out the journal that Ben had given me, the one that I had been been supposed to give Poe had he survived. For the longest time, I wrestled with myself on whether or not I ought to read what my son had written. In the end, I decided not to. Instead, I just held onto Poe's hand for the rest of the journey home.

I've still not read anything in the journal. I'm almost afraid of what I might find there if I do. Ben had meant the journal for Poe, not me, just like his last letter all those years ago. Poe never told me about what was in that letter, but I think he had been reciting it at his execution. From what I heard of it, I think I understand why he kept it to himself for so long. It had been the only thing Poe had left of Ben. Han and I each had our own keepsakes and memories of our son, but Poe had little other than that letter. I think that by letting go of that on the Star Destroyer, spreading Ben's last words to him to an uncaring, unknowing galaxy, Poe was letting a large part of himself go as well. Poe really cared about Ben – it was hard to miss the look in his eyes whenever they met. I don't think I've ever realized exactly what Poe must have gone through when we lost Ben. I can only imagine he felt the way I felt when we lost Han to carbonite in Jabba's palace.

I think Ben cared about Poe, too. After all, Poe had the influence that none of us – you, me, or Han – ever did. For Poe, Ben came back to the light. He gave his life to give Poe a chance. I just wish that that chance could have come to fruition. At the same time, though, I feel a sense of peace, as though I know that somewhere, they're both happy. They deserve that.

You told me once that there was no hope left for Kylo Ren, that there was no hope left for the Jedi. I almost believed that, but then I saw what Poe did, what he was able to do because he still had hope and love for someone we all believed to be too far gone. Because of Ben and Poe, I'm willing to believe again. I'm going to honor their sacrifice by choosing to believe in hope for our future, stability for our Republic, and peace for our galaxy.

I believe in you, Luke. I believe in Han, wherever he may be. I believe that we can come back together and fight this darkness that took Ben and Poe from us. Will you believe that, too?

All my love,

 _Leia_


End file.
